The Drinking Game
by Ladyhazle
Summary: Hood and the Director of the FBI sit down to a drinking game and some important questions get asked.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own 'em, I just make them live between the real episodes...

* * *

"It's your turn."

"I'm thinking."

"You think too much."

"Isn't that what you hired me to do, Frank," Doctor Hood asked, looking up at the Director of the FBI from under a raised eyebrow. The two friends sat opposite each other, a small game board between them. Hood was hunched over the board, deep in thought. Frank grinned and instinctively reached for the pilsner glass of sparkling amber beer sitting on his side of the board.

"Ah, ah, ah," Hood warned, "I haven't made a move yet."

Frank sighed heavily and sat back in his chair, waiting. A satisfied smile suddenly turned up the corners of Jacob Hood's mouth. Long fingers nimbly snatched up the game piece and jumped the round, black chip over Frank's red ones in a zigzag pattern. With a flourish, Hood slapped the chip down on the opposite side of the board. He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest.

"King me," he demanded brightly in his low, smoky voice. Frank did as he was instructed and then lifted his beer, gladly taking a losing drink.

"Checkers is a ridiculous drinking game," Frank complained. He took another sip of beer for good measure.

"You picked it," Hood pointed out.

"I know," Frank frowned. "We haven't done any good drinking together in awhile. I thought we should ease into it."

"Right…"

"Right… Scotch," Frank asked suddenly.

"Oh, absolutely."

Hood and Frank took up their glasses, clinked the pilsners together and drained them. They 'plunked' them down on the game board and stood. Frank led the way to the bar.

The Director's home was classy; all rich woods and antique art. Obvious signs of Frank's family were scattered around the room. His young son's baseball mitt and ball were tossed carelessly into one of the comfortable looking brown leather chairs near the bar. Family photos were neatly arranged on the side table between the leather chair and its mate.

As they approached the long, well stocked bar, Hood's shining hazel eyes fell on a picture hanging on the wall behind the bar. He pulled his right hand out of his dark blue jean pocket and pointed at the photo of two young men leaning against a vehicle.

"Is that my old car," he asked. Frank pulled the cork on a fifteen year old bottle of Scotch and glanced back at the picture in question. He set two tumblers on the bar and grinned.

"It is. I'm surprised we ever made it to those games in that damned thing."

"I'm not," Hood said, accepting a tumbler, "I'm surprised we made it back." Frank laughed. He raised his glass for a toast.

"To science experiments…"

"May they always do more good than harm," Hood added.

"And if they don't, I've got you," Frank said, ending the toast. Hood smirked. His cheeks turned a rosy color. The two friends clinked glasses for the second time that night and sipped their Scotch.

Frank motioned to the two leather chairs. They sat, settling in. The comfortable silence only lasted a few moments before Frank asked,

"How's Special Agent Young doing these days?"

"Oh, um, fine I guess."

"And I'd wager to guess that you keep better tabs on her than that," Frank said.

"What's that supposed to mean, Frank?"

Frank shook his head. "Nothing Jacob, It just makes me wonder why she's lasted so much longer than your other handlers."

Hood shifted uncomfortably in the chair. He stared into his Scotch. Hood finally shrugged.

"She's smart."

"They were all smart."

"Yeah but, um, I was just an assignment to them. They didn't actually care much about what we were doing."

"And Agent Young cares?"

"Not at first she didn't," Hood admitted, "I think it was her determination not to be worn down by me that made her realize all the good we do. That it was just as important as finding wanted criminals, or breaking down doors."

"She still breaks down a lot of doors with you, Jacob," Frank noted.

"Yes, she does."

"That bothers you," Frank stated.

"I don't like to see anyone get hurt, Frank," Hood explained.

"Especially Rachel?"

"No," Hood exclaimed, a little too loudly. "Look, Rachel is special because she wants to be assigned to me, not because she has to be."

"That's it," Frank asked.

"That's all there is to it."

Frank nodded. He leaned back in his chair and took a deep, satisfied breath. Seeing this, Hood also relaxed, letting down his defenses again.

"Thinking of you as anything but an assignment could be dangerous for both of you," Frank said gently. Hood sighed, annoyed with Frank's only slightly veiled implications.

"Why," he asked reluctantly.

"She might protect you differently."

"Different, how?"

"When you care about someone, you tend to risk yourself more… sometimes unnecessarily."

"They all risked themselves, Frank," Hood pointed out.

"Those risks were calculated."

"Rachel is a professional. Otherwise, she'd be replaced just like the rest of them," Hood tried to assure his friend. Frank looked at Jacob, judging the truth of his statement. Frank knew there was more to it, but it could wait. Special Agent Young was still undergoing physical therapy. It would be another couple of weeks before he would have to judge her ability to affectively protect the good doctor.

"What about darts," Frank suggested. Hood looked up, drawn from his personal thoughts.

"As a drinking game?"

"Sure."

Hood pushed himself out of the leather chair and stood. He shoved his right hand into his pocket and looked down at Frank.

"Alright, but only if we drink every time a dart is thrown."


End file.
